


By the roots of my hair some god got hold of me

by silenceinmolasses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Family Feels, Godfather Sirius Black, Hair-pulling, Harry Potter Has a Crush on Sirius Black, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Violence, Play Fighting, Roughhousing, Unrequited Crush, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 07:39:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13476816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silenceinmolasses/pseuds/silenceinmolasses
Summary: His scar never hurts when Sirius looks at him.





	By the roots of my hair some god got hold of me

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Sylvia Plath's "The Hanging Man".
> 
> Enjoy :)

The distance between the stairs and the room of Sirius’ mother is exactly fifteen steps. 

Harry knows this because he crosses the hall every evening, a glass of water in his hand and expectation in his chest since the day he came from the Ministry, free of all charges and yet unable to move. He stumbles near the door, stops. He knows Sirius is behind it, Buckbeak to keep him company, away from the light and noise downstairs.

Harry wants to come in, his wish heavy on his shoulders and tingling in his fingertips. He doesn’t know what he can say: his consoling words sound dull and rough in his head and Sirius deserves better. His brave, his locked-up Godfather, the house cannot contain him. Harry knows that when they clean the rooms there is no way to find anything of his, is aware that logically neither of the objects they find and throw out are anything Sirius at least remotely considers his; and yet.

And yet Harry runs his fingers through the curtains curiously, he takes old shiny trinkets to his room. Once he pricked his finger on a rose; the flower hasn’t wilted yet. There is a sealed flagon of something thick and tantalizing inside; Harry tries to prevent Hermione from seeing it.

Harry slows down near the closed door, brushes his fingers over the wood. He lost count how many times he debated with himself what offer, what gift of peace he should bring or maybe he should just come himself. Harry expects to hear Moody’s inquiries what exactly he is doing any time now but he never does.

After the celebratory evening, Harry sees Sirius only during dinner. Their eyes meet often over bowls of potatoes and salads; Sirius flashes him a smile. During dessert Harry follows the black, thick braid of his hair and gets custard all over his mouth.

In any group of people, Sirius always notices Harry first and is the last to break the eye contact. His scar never hurts when Sirius looks at him. 

Now that he is coming back to Hogwarts ( _now that there is no reason to worry about him_ his consciousness whispers maliciously), Harry easily finds ways to be alone. He is still angry, a grimy feeling slithering all over his chest cavity and whatever relief and affection he feels for the Weasleys and the rest of the Order is smothered under wet frustration. Harry is less careful. He thinks that he challenges himself but is not too sure what for. He answers every clap on his shoulder with a smack which is a hairsbreadth away from being a punch. He constantly nicks himself while shaving which is quite embarrassing, especially when Sirius brushes his thumb against the cut and unambiguously says _careful_. Something bitter and hot pools inside of Harry and when he bats his Godfather’s hand away, with way more force than necessary, Sirius lets him; he relaxes his body enough to stumble back. Harry bites the inside of his cheek, hard.

One time the door is open. There is barely a crack but it is enough. The night is sweltering with heat, the air is almost bright. The spells Mrs. Weasley casted to chill the rooms seem to hover suspended. Harry tastes sweat above his upper lip and glides down to the room he shares with Ron. He lies down on the covers, his head and dick heavy.

If he doesn’t dare come in.

Maybe Sirius will.

He doesn’t. On the third night of this heat with Ron snoring next to him, Harry drags himself to the kitchen, breathing in stale air. His head is mushy and he thinks about nothing in particular and wonders too late why there is light.

Sirius sits at the table, his shirt half unbuttoned and his braid messy like he slept in it. His concentrated face is illuminated in silver by a few white fire balls fluttering in the air. He is reading something, an old book, his eyes following the text though disagreeing with everything. He looks healthier, Harry notices with satisfaction and then with a heaver, headier feeling he acknowledges that Sirius must be stronger now than when they fought in the Shrieking Shack.

‘Can’t sleep?’ he hums, carelessly turning a page.

‘No, I’m sleep-walking,’ Harry comes closer. There is a half-full glass of clear liquid and Harry takes it rebelliously. He swallows a big gulp and tastes only water bittersweet with lemon. He coughs and sees Sirius’ lips curving up.

‘What are you reading?’ he sits down too.

‘Garbage,’ Sirius closes the book, ‘I took it from dear Mother’s room and I was still disappointed,’ he stretches his arms up. Muscles jump under his pale skin.

This is the first time they are alone for a while and Harry doesn’t know what to say. Sirius is looking at him, eyes unblinking, fingers untying the leather strap before running through his hair. The black, velvety mass glittered under the fire and the anger, always shimmering just beneath the surface, makes him stand up and grab locks of hair. Though they feel silky, they have volume too, weighty in his grasp. Harry is breathing deeply, he doesn’t really know why he acted out like that just now; he doesn’t know why Sirius is not _stopping_ him. A lock curls around his palm like a cat’s tail and he pulls, seeing Sirius involuntarily wincing.

‘Enough,’ he says lazily, and as Harry tugs again, grabs the glass and dumps the contents into Harry’s face who lets go, spluttering. He steps back, wiping of the liquid off his glasses.

Sirius’ skin around his scalp looks red and sensitive. Harry’s fingers twitch, remembering how it felt to bury them in a mass of hair.

‘You’re going to grab other students too?’ he asks conversationally.

‘No,’ Harry doesn’t mean to answer, he is not going to dignify Sirius’ persistent eyes with an answer but he continues, ‘I can’t seem to catch your attention.’

‘You always have my attention, Harry,’ Sirius’ voice is softer and he extends his hand towards him, long, elegant fingers slack. Harry doesn’t dare raise his head. Water drips down his cheek and he is distracted. When he abruptly jumps and swaps Sirius’ arm away as if in an afterthought before punching him in the face, Harry has enough time to realize that Sirius is way too relaxed, permissive. His too loose fist collides with his Godfather’s chin before both of them crumble on the floor.

Sirius barks out a laugh. He leans over Harry who is trembling in secret anticipation; he shudders as Sirius’ hair brushes his shoulders.

‘You want to fight me, Harry?’ the area around his chin and the lower part of his cheek is redder. Harry’s knuckles caught on his lip and now he looks as if he was kissed. When Harry tries to sit down, Sirius pushes him back, his knee digging in Harry’s ribs.

‘Yeah, I do,’ he tries to sound defiant but he is looking to the side. He kicks Sirius in the thigh but is not fast enough to avoid the latter’s hand closing around his throat. He is not squeezing, not at all, it just feels tight.

‘Okay,’ Sirius whispers, his grey eyes wide and warm. He is too heavy for Harry to throw off. It is not unsafe, they are just playing and yet he feels hot.

‘You didn’t tell me anything!’ words spill from his mouth and they taste salty. Sirius’ fingers dig into his throat, ‘I mean,’ he licks his lips, tries again, ‘when I came back from the hearing, you told me nothing!’ he hisses angrily.

Sirius looks pale. He lets Harry push him away, to clumsily press his shoulders into the floor.

‘I’m sorry I hurt you, Harry,’ he is eager and his honesty makes the back of Harry’s throat itch.

‘Do you even want me…’ Harry bites his lip. He feels lost, like he deliberately stepped out into an unfamiliar territory, having expected answers and now those expectations weight him down.

Sirius slides from beneath him. Dry lips touch Harry’s forehead and then his cheek.

‘Of course,’ Sirius sounds hoarse, breathless, ‘You have no idea how much I want you to live with me. How could I not want you?’ he chuckles humorlessly. When Harry looks up, Sirius looks at him, his gaze raw like an open wound, ‘You’re…’ he stumbles.

Harry’s body feels heavy and yet he is melting in the embrace. He shifts closer, his heart hard, wanting.

‘You’re like my son. My son!’ Sirius hugs him closer. Harry’s breath stutters, something inside of him falling over an edge. He thinks their mouths brush against each other but Sirius did not seem to notice so Harry does not mention it.

In the morning Harry can barely open his eyes or his mouth. He wants to wear the vague bruising around his neck like a badge of honor, like a battle scar, _(like a mark)_. Shame is eating him inside.

Perched on the stairway with others, Harry follows Sirius with his eyes as he goes to the meeting. His hair is tied up in a ponytail. He seems to have forgotten the cut on his lip.

Harry with a dull satisfaction imagines pressing his Godfather against the wall, biting the column of his throat, scratching across his eyes.


End file.
